


queima minha pele

by zigur



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drinking & Talking, Emotionally Repressed, Flirting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sauron: Not Yet The Worst He Can Be, Second Age, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigur/pseuds/zigur
Summary: It’s an urge, a need to touch Tyelperinquar and feel the heat of his skin, to reach for his aura and intertwine it with own, to paint him inhiscolours, bathe him in gold and watch him thrive.





	queima minha pele

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonofMordor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonofMordor/gifts).



> i cant believe it took me the better part of a decade to write silvergifting but at last....... here it is. titles a song by baco exu do blues and it means 'burn my skin' 
> 
> thanks dragonofmordor for the prompt!!!! this is probably not. what you asked for but i hope you like it?

The light of Tillion's moon covers the city as Annatar makes his way across it, moving through the cheerful gathering of peoples scattered around the main streets with an ease that others would find difficult to copy, occasionally bowing at acquaintances he'd rather not displease and altogether ignoring the less elegant leering of drunken strangers. 

A sense of knowing guides him through the festive crowd and he follows the feeling into the main building, past the eyes of watchful guards and inebriated peers towards the darker studies and emptier workrooms. The corridors are poorly lit to discourage pointless wandering, but darkness has never bothered him before and he finds his way with no effort—Annatar has long memorised these halls, and even if he hadn't, the beacon of power at the end of his road would work just fine as a guide. 

The heavy doors to the eastern library are ajar when he finally gets there, and though there is no light shining from the gap, there is an echo of soft humming and the comforting feeling of a familiar aura in the air. 

Annatar would snort if it didn't seem so crass.

“You are becoming far too predictable,” His voice is quiet but reverberates through the space nonetheless when he walks inside, soft and amused. He closes the door behind him with a gentle thud and looks around, pinpointing the presence before walking towards it, silent if not for the sound of his robes dragging through the floors as he walks. 

“Ah,” A familiar drawl answers. “But who’s to say my intention wasn’t to be found?” The words have the shadow of a slur to them and Annatar finds himself smiling as he turns left on the last of the bookshelves. 

The large bow window that rests against the end of the corridor is open, letting the gentle summer wind twirls inside the room and rustle the papers sitting atop the lonely desk on the wall beside it. New papers, Annatar notices, with fresh ink and a pile of very interesting looking books next to it; work was being done here, and he's almost tempted to go over and take a look, but decides against it, turning to the figure lolling on the windowsill. 

It's strange, he thinks as the sight hits him. Gold has always been his hue; it's what he was born into, what he earned for himself. It was not choice—it dyes his ëalar and his fána whether he likes it or not—but it is  _his_. It's what fits him, and he's never had a problem showing it to the world, draping it across his shoulders, fully accepting it for the part of himself that it is. 

Gold is his metal, his colour, his touch. 

But for all he admired Laurelin's light, saw himself upon it, it was always Telperion that held his love. It was always Telperion's glow that captured his eyes; it was a shade of its colour that lured him away from Almaren and Aman, first repeatedly and then for good. 

And it's a shard of Telperion's light that bathes the room, blessing one of its sons. 

Tyelperinquar has a lazy smile on his lips and a glow of affection in his eyes when Annatar deigns to meet them. The cold brown of his skin brightens under the silver moon, and the tattoos and piercings that done it shimmer when touched by the light, picturesque as they reflect it around the room.

Something inside him stirs at the sight, but Annatar pays it no mind—it’s natural, after all, to admire beautiful things, to find oneself in awe of their existence, to crave their presence.

And there are little beings as worthy of his admiration and awe as the one standing before him: one of the last sons of the greatest house of the Noldor, and the greatest craftsman among the First and Secondborn alike since his own grandfather. Tyelperinquar was born into greatness and paved his way above it, regardless of his family's name falling from grace, and if even with all his wrongdoings, Fëanáro's name is still spoken of highly amidst the Maia of Aulë, Annatar has little doubts that Tyelperinquar's would grow beyond it. 

"Good evening, Annatar," Tyelpe says when silence stretches, a goblet hanging lazily from the skilful tips of his fingers. He sits up as Annatar approaches, folding his legs under himself and pushing the long ends of his robes into the floor in invitation.

“There are not many who would know where to find you here,” He says, lofty as ignores the greeting and sits across his host. “Is it safe to say, then, that it was me you hoped to see?”

“You must think very highly of yourself, friend, to assume you are the only one to know me so well,” Tyelperinquar says, and for a second something sharp flashes through his face, a feral look only one who survived the War of Jewels can summon. It displaces something in the depths of Annatar’s body, and he is reminded of white-blonde hair and wild laughter across a battlefield. 

A shade of generations past, breathing still. 

He wipes the thought off his mind and lifts an eyebrow. “Ah, you were waiting for another, then? Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude,” Annatar moves as if to rise from his seat, but a hand wraps itself around his wrist before he can do much. They're both well aware this would've been useless had he truly meant to leave, but it's a game they often play nonetheless, and he makes no move to break the grip on his arm, feigned surprise on his face as he keeps himself in place. 

“Coyness does not suit you,” Tyelpe smiles, leaning into his space as if it were his own to occupy. The absence of his touch is strangely unpleasant when it finally removes itself from his body as he leans back once more. “I was, in fact, hiding—I came here because you are the only one by whom I do not mind to be found.”

“An honour I do not mean to take lightly,” Annatar answers, and takes the goblet from Tyelperinquar’s hands as it is offered to him. It’s stronger than he expected, sour and sweet all at once and made better for it. “This is new.” He licks the liquid off his lips, not missing the way grey eyes follow this movement.

“By your standards, perhaps,” The goblet is repossessed and Tyelperinquar lets out a sigh of amusement before taking a sip of his own and saying, “This, my friend, is holy water.”

The confidence of the statement and the smugness on his voice startle a laugh out of Annatar, genuine and bright.  “The courage and lack of good sense of your kind will never cease to amaze me.”

“Courage and lack of good sense are the very staples of the House of Fëanor and I am nothing if not my family’s son.” His eyes crinkle in amusement, the boldness on his voice as he speaks proudly of his House a refreshing change from the humbleness forced upon him by the others.

It never fails to make something angry twist inside of him, the way others treat Tyelperinquar’s ancestry, how they coerce him into shame and humility that’s entirely unbecoming of him. He’s looked at as if expected to atone for whatever crimes they accuse his family of committing, expected to diminish himself in punishment for deeds in which he took no part in, and it sets Annatar’s ëalar alight whenever he witnesses it happening.

Because he knows, he Sees it—Tyelperinquar could be everything his grandfather was, could shine brighter than Fëanáro ever had the chance to, could change this world if he so chose. For others to want him to limit himself for their sakes enrages him far more than he thought possible.

Tyelperinquar is deserving, more so than any other eruhíni he’s met so far; that he should be forced to hold himself with anything but pride is absurd.

“Indeed, you are,” He says, pushing down the strange burst of outrage before it shines through his fána. “Do tell, however, of the reasons for your escape. I was under the impression you were looking forward to these celebrations.”

“And I had been! There were not many reasons for festivities during the First Age—I find myself latching onto any chance to celebrate now, as I’m sure many of those who survived Beleriand do.” Tyelperinquar glances out the window, a shadow of something painful passing through his eyes before he turns back to Annatar with a frown. “Were it not for the lack of subtlety of some, I’d be more than happy to return.”

“Ah,” Annatar says, and he makes no effort to suppress the urge to smile as pieces fall into place on his mind.

“As my friend, you could at least pretend to not find amusement in my misery, I think,” The frown deepens, outrage seeping through his eyes, and Annatar can’t help but liken the look on his face to the one of a child denied their wishes.

“I won’t apologise—”

“I never even thought you capable of such deed.”

“—hush—but, truly, Tyelpe, one would think you’d have gotten used to this kind of attention by now! Surely, you are too smart not to recognise your own effect on the ones around you.” The words find their way out his mouth with an ease that startles even himself; sincere compliments were never something he dished out indiscriminately, but somehow they felt nothing but natural as they tumbled out his lips.

It should bother him, he thinks, all this seemingly genuine sentiment, this uncontrolled cluster of admiration he has for this one Elf. He has, of course, always paid respects where they were due—saw Lúthien’s bravery, even if it angered him, recognised Finderáto’s skill, even if his own surpassed it, even admired Fëanáro for his endeavours and unwillingness to conform to the Valar’s infuriating restrictions.

This—this feels _different_ somehow, in a way he’s not entirely comfortable with dissecting.

Even Tyelperinquar himself seems to have been caught off guard by his words, grey eyes wide with surprise that is quick to dissolve into something that makes his entire aura glow brighter before he shapes it into smugness.

“And what effect might that be, pray tell?” His smile takes a sharper edge, one that’d look dangerous if it wasn’t so teasing and another flash of understanding speeds through Annatar’s mind.

The sheer courage of Elves—of _this_ particular elf—will never cease to amaze him.

He lets his own lips twist into a matching grin.

“Fishing for compliments does not become you,” He says, watching Tyelperiquar’s eyes glow with exhilaration when he sees the path laid before him.

“Is it fishing if you always give them willingly and unprompted?” Ah, Annatar thinks, feeling his own blood heating up with the thrill of his companion’s boldness. “I never knew Ainu to be so loose with their favour.”

“And indeed, we are not. Few are the ones that ever had it and fewer still of those deserved it,” A gust of wind shakes the silvers adorning Tyelperinquar’s hair and the longer of his earrings, soft sounds echoing between them as metal clashes against metal. 

“I wonder,” Tyelpe says, slow and deliberate, the intensity of his gaze a tangible weight on Annatar’s golden skin. “if I’m one of the latter.”

“I am not one to place my faith blindly, Tyelpe.” He lets his words skin into the atmosphere, lets them cement themselves between them. “Doubting yourself is doubting my judgement, and that will not stand.”

For a while, there is only silence as they stare at each other, measuring and critical, grey on gold. Something is being weighed, Annatar knows as much, but nothing beyond that.

Whatever it is, however, he does not seem to be found lacking, and a strange mixture of relief, smugness and outrage flows through him as Tyelperinquar’s smile returns in full bloom, much softer than it had been moments ago.

The spectrum of emotion Elda have never ceases to astonish him.

“It was not my wish to offend you. I will refrain from doing so in the future,” He bows his head in apology, eyes remaining fixed on Annatar.

“See that you do—I have never misplaced my faith before and I have no wish to start now,” Untrue, if only on a technicality, but there’s little need to divulge this fact. “We have steered off-topic, it seems.”

“Oh? Have we?”

“You cannot expect me to believe you unaccustomed to the—more studious, shall we say—variety of looks people send your way—”

“Speaking from experience, I see.” Annatar smiles, but doesn’t allow the conversation to be stirred away, and Tyelperinquar sighs.

“—so, whatever pulled you away from the festivities must have been particularly crude behaviour.” He finishes and watches as Tyelpe wrinkles his nose at the memory of the event, but remains silent. “I could find out without your help, you know.”

“Don’t.” He answers, face still twisted in displeasure. “It wasn’t a big deal, really. Strangely enough, holy water doesn’t seem to inspire holiness in those who consume it.” He lifts the goblet, emptying it of its contents in one movement before placing it on the floor by his bare feet.

“That hardly seems an excuse for poor behaviour.”

“Not necessarily poor, if we're being fair. It’s complicated.”

“I assure you, I’m quite capable of following.” Tyelperinquar chuckles, looking between exasperation and fondness.

“You have spent too long among us Noldor—the inability to keep yourself out of businesses that aren’t your own is a hallmark trait of my people.” His tone is light, but there is something less than pleasant beneath it. “You must understand that since your arrival I’ve become a considerably more public figure.”

“I remember. You were quite secluded for a founding member of such a popular institution,” Annatar’s memories are always swimming on the surface of his mind, easily reachable, and constant in their vividness. Tyelperinquar had never been reclusive or unapproachable per se—he always had too much charisma to seem misantropic—, but he always seemed distant and was rarely a presence around the city, always a name whispered with respect but never affection.

“There was a reason for that. There was never any hatred directed towards me, never any open hostility—Artanis and Celeborn had taken me under their protection and people were never going to oppose that—, but it was always clear that no one had forgotten the actions of my family.”

 _Ah_ , Annatar thinks and understands, _of course_.

The anger he had managed to drown rises back up again, the memories of the subtle ways in which Tyelperinquar was alienated from his peers and from his own heritage resurfacing on his mind. For some reason, it had never occurred to him that such a thing had been the cause for his apparent reclusiveness, and he’s only angered further by his own lack of insight.

“It was… uncomfortable to be around others. They were never explicitly unwelcoming, but they were also not very welcoming at all, really.” Tyelpe shrugs, unaffected and uncaring. “It was only when you showed up that the airs around me started to shift. So it can be—jarring at times, I suppose. Everyone seems to have forgiven themselves for how they acted towards me, except no one ever asked for forgiveness. All it took was the favour of one Ainu and all was forgotten; nevermind every good I had done prior to it. It's a little insulting, I think.”

“Hm,” Annatar answers, reading nothing but sincerity in the bitterness and discomfort of his tone. It makes perfect sense, for the pride Tyelpe hides under his skin, for the temper his family is so well-known for but that he insists on keeping locked away, to cry out in outrage at the ease with which Eregion seems to have forgotten their distrust of him.

More than that, however, it’s _fascinating_ to see this previously unknown disdain rising to the surface of Tyeperinquar’s being, to see the flashes of what could be hatred brighten his aura, to feel the anger he holds for himself for even entertaining such emotions burn. It’s an intense miasma of negativity threatening to taint the most incredible aura Annatar has ever seen on any eruhíni, and he’s utterly mesmerised by it.

It vanishes as suddenly as it came, dispelled by the deep breaths Tyelpe takes as he pushes his rawest feelings back under his skin, and Annatar is left stuck between exhilaration and wonder.

“Forgive me,” Tyelpe begs, brow furrowed and eyes stuck somewhere on the horizon. “I did not mean to lose myself.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for. You know I’m interested in knowing every side of you, as unpleasant as you might think them to be.” Again, his words find their way out without his consent, genuine in a way he’s never been comfortable with being before. 

And just like earlier, they seem to startle Tyelperinquar—his recently contained aura bursts silver, warmth and fondness scorching Annatar’s skin with their might for the seconds it takes him to restrain them once more.

“You—” Tyelpe starts, more out of astonishment than anything else. He makes a quick recovery, though, and smugness replaces shock on his face as he continues: “—are very generous with your affection today, are you not?”

And Annatar doesn’t know, can’t understand what in this situation stirred the feelings that surge inside his ribs, can only feel them as they overwhelm his common sense.

It’s an urge, a need to touch Tyelperinquar and feel the heat of his skin, to reach for his aura and intertwine it with own, to paint him in  _his_ colours, bathe him in gold and watch him thrive.

“I am always generous to those deserving of my generosity,” He answers, almost hypnotised by his own feelings, by the sight of the one standing before him, removed from his own actions as he watches his hand rise up and touch a braid on Tyelperinquar’s dark hair.

“I wonder if you know what you are doing,” Tyelpe says, eyes intense as he leans forward, mimicking a movement Annatar had not even noticed himself making. They’re close, now, an insignificant distance between them; Tyelpe’s breath is warm on his face, sweet and heavy with the all the drinks he had earlier, and Annatar’s nails are long and golden as they twirl his silver braid around his fingers.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. More oft than not these days I find myself borrowing the elven tradition of acting on my impulses.”

Tyelpe laughs and the sound echoes around the room and through Annatar’s veins. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken; that is less an elven tradition and more a Fëanorian trait.”

“Even better: I can hardly account for all Elda, but the Fëanorian I know is nothing if not a worthy inspiration.”

Another laugh, softer and surprisingly shyer, matching the soft flush of his cheeks and fondness of his eyes. “Ah, you’ve flustered me.”

“A victory,” Annatar smiles, gaze rising from where he is still playing with Tyelpe’s braid to the fullness of his lips, the arch of his cupid’s bow. “Flustering the elusive lord of Eregion—I am owed a prize, surely.”

His hand abandons the braid at last, fingers light as a feather as they trail their way up the slope of Tyelpe’s neck and cup the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb pressing down at the swollen curve of his bottom lip, testing its softness.

“A prize, he says,” Complacency drips from the whisper of his voice and it’s Annatar’s turn to let out a huff of laughter.

He keeps thoughts of introspection away from his mind as he inches closer to Tyelperinquar, barring the confusing chaos of his own feelings and giving himself into the impulse to touch and take, to be touched and taken. It’s easier to not think, to explore physical wants and needs he’s familiar with—he always did enjoy having a physical form—, even if they never reached such a level of intensity in his past exploits.

“Hm, yes. A prize,” He finds his own feelings reflected on the grey of Tyelpe’s eyes when he looks up at them, the same wants staring back at him just as brazenly. “Will you give it to me?”

A third pearl of laughter, rough and low.

“I find,” Tyelpe says against his skin, and Annatar might have been born and forged from fire, might have become its master, but the burn Tyelpe’s mouth leaves on his flesh as it trails down the edge of his cheekbones is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, neither fire nor ice or acid, but a pained pleasure of its own kind. “that there is very little I will not give you, these days.”

“Good to know,” Annatar says and it’s the end of his patience.

He uses his hold on Tyelperinquar’s face to turn it towards him just as a cacophony of noise bursts from the streets below them, ignoring the huff of amusement he gets in response and meeting his lips in a kiss he had not realised he had been longing for.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this and it had never been this slow or careful—Tyelperinquar touches work their way to firmness, starting light and delicate before turning urgent and desperate, varying in strength as they move. One of his hands finds its way up his neck, cupping his nape and pushing him closer while the other tightens its grip on the curve of his hip before pulling with a strength Annatar knew he had but never experienced firsthand.

He hears the goblet Tyelpe had been holding drop to the floor as his foot pushes it away but pays it no mind, attention tunnelled into the heat of Tyelpe’s mouth, the warmth of his body beneath him, the citric smell of his skin and hair.

If it has been a long time since he’s done anything like this, it has been longer still since anything was able to hold his focus so thoroughly, since anyone was able to withstand the strength of his aura so well and match it with their own.

No wonder he was so taken by this elf the moment he set eyes on him, no wonder his interest burns so sharp on the pit of his stomach—this combination of skill and power has all but vanished since the end of the First Era, is possessed by maybe a handful of creatures on this day and age, fewer of which are eruhíni.

“You,” He says, breathless in a way he’s rarely been before, pushing Tyelpe away to stare him down. His eyes are almost wolfish as they look up at him, mouth red and swollen, and cheeks flushed. The silver light of Tillion’s moon shines bright upon his skin, bathing him in his own colour, but there’s only gold reflected in his eyes and well—Annatar thinks he’s never looked more divine. “You are mine.” A decision, made on impulse and based on the scorching need that runs through his blood and burns up his veins, but that he doubts he’ll grow to regret.

Tyelpe’s aura explodes at his words, nearly overwhelming him—and doubtlessly startling anyone within half a kilometre of them—before retreating back to its owner just as suddenly, but leaving an impression of euphoria and craving behind.   

Annatar exhales, sharp and amused, and lets his forehead fall against Tyelpe’s, eyes closed and smile in place.

“Yours,” Tyelpe says and it’s completely unnecessary, almost redundant when compared to the previous display of enthusiasm, but it spreads warmth through Annatar’s chest nonetheless.

Something rings alarm bells on the depths of his mind, distant and faint, urgent and real, but he tunes it out for now, unwilling to let himself think of anything but the body beneath him and the affection exuding from the aura intertwined with his.

For now, he chooses to do nothing but press closer to Tyelperinquar and enjoy the taste of power and eternity against his lips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so my personal hcs are that sauron a) did not arrive in eregion with Evil intentions, they just developed over time because hes incapable of not being The Worst b) genuinely admired and liked tyelpe. i dont think he'd have spent as much time working with him if he didnt tbh? 
> 
> and i think my tyelpe interpretation runs a little different from most as well? i see him as both very charismatic and proud (though he tends to keep a tight leash on that feanorian pride), which i think could cause him to have some resentment towards the probable resentment people hold for him over the actions of his family etc etc etc
> 
> also if youre wondering, tyelpes holy water is cachaça. we honestly call it holy water or holy fire here
> 
> anyway....... please leave me a comment im begging you


End file.
